still left with the river
by theotherthompson
Summary: "Everyone's lost something. Someone. They'd understand." Draco almost laughs at the thought. "Not like me," he replies, adrift in a world that until a few months ago has always been clearly defined.


**AN:** My entry for the QLFC round 4. My emotion was _grief,_ and the prompts I used were _burst, tranquil,_ and _skip._ (3, 7, and 9 respectively.)

Since my prompt was grief, I decided to have Draco go through the five stages of grief in less than 3K. It was quite an experiment, but I think it turned out decently.

I got the title of this story from a poem by Richard Siken, in his book _Crush._ It's the one that goes "A man takes his sadness down to the river and trhows it in the river, but then he's still left with the river. A man takes his sadness and throws it away but he's still left with his hands." Not exactly the emotion I had to use, but worked well with some of the things that occur in this fic.

As a final note, this is set right after the battle of Hogwarts, so blood, death, and injuries are mentioned, but it's not graphic and has already occurred.

Total word count: 2, 435 (according to Google Docs.)

* * *

Draco Malfoy is sitting by the far wall of the Great Hall, the stone behind him digging into the vertebrae of his back uncomfortably. There's a small circle of space between him and the other people still residing in Hogwarts - the last left after the Death Eaters were finally driven out, which somehow didn't include Draco. Maybe that's why he hasn't been killed yet; the Light is still trying to figure out what to do with him, a turncoat Slytherin who fought for the wrong side.

He rubs a hand over his bloodshot eyes and gets up with some difficulty, holding back his pained groans as he used the wall behind him as support. His right leg has a barely healed cut on the meat of his calf, and he can feel it burn as he uses the muscle, the pink of the new skin visible through the tear in his black trousers.

The people part around him as he walks out of the Hall, limping the slightest bit, and he passes through the crowd like a ghost. No one looks at him as he passes, like they're moving out of his way because of their own unknown compulsion. He must look more like a wraith than a ghost; his black clothes are darker and wet in some places from blood and sweat and a plethora of other bodily fluids, torn and dirty, and his skin is an ashen pale a few shades lighter than his messy hair. He pauses when he's outside of the Hall, breathing in deep, carefully measured breaths as he lets his leg complain for a few seconds.

It's two in the morning and Draco is standing in the ruins of Hogwarts. Behind him, people are hovering over other people who lie, still and silent, on top of various flat surfaces. In front of him, a giant hole in the solid walls of Hogwarts is opening its cavernous mouth, its edges serrated teeth. Beyond that, the devastated grounds of Hogwarts lay in muddy silence, the unattended corpses still there half buried with other bodies and more rubble. Draco almost laughs - he doesn't, because he knows that it would turn hysterical.

It just feels absurd, to be able to look at the wreckage and think that he is - was? - a part of it, and that half of his life is a part of it as well. Just a week ago, Death Eaters tormented students here. Two days ago the battle started. Just yesterday he had seen Potter's body and thought of weeping. And now the fighting is over; the Light won and Draco's personal boggart is no longer alive - not a shade or a person or a fragment of a soul.

Draco's shoulders are tense. His lips are pursed. He feels a bit like throwing up.

Instead, Draco walks through the gaping hole, ignoring the giant front doors a few paces away. He walks through it because it's closer, because the door has giant boulders blocking it, and because blood is staining the stone floor there. Draco prides himself on his pragmatism. Most Slytherins do. Did.

Outside, Draco takes a steadying breath when his leg starts to hurt more, but gags moments later from the heavy scent of blood and ashes, and the lingering sense of spellwork heavy in the air. The grass is wet beneath his feet, almost slippery, and it's too dark to tell whether it's rain or blood and for a brief, crazy moment Draco thinks that it doesn't matter, really, his shoes are already ruined. He swallows down the sour bile that bubbles up into his mouth.

Draco takes another steadying breath, powering through the smell, and breathes out.

His feet take him not to Hogwarts' train platform, nor any of the other entrances, but to the lake. It's just as well, because the lake is crystalline under the little light that reaches past the thick cloud cover overhead. The lake is untouched by the fighting, or the evidence has been washed away long before Draco set out this way.

The Black Lake looks the same as ever. Massive and dark; ominous water rippling in silver flashes. It's quiet and still, by the lake. Everything sees to be peaceful here, like a gentle wave of sleepiness lulled the mermaids and the Giant Squid into states of easy tranquility. Draco picks up some flat rocks from the lake's shore, ignoring the strain on his leg, and wades into the water without taking his shoes off or rolling his pants up. His injured leg does not appreciate the sudden change in temperature, muscle spasms for awhile before settling. Draco grits his teeth as it happens.

Even with his ragged breathing, the lake is quiet. He wishes everything could be as tranquil as this. As calm and soothing and dream-like.

Things would be so much easier, if they were.

In his hand he flips a stone, over and over, rubbing his thumb over the small ridges and depressions on the surface.

Breathing is both easier and harder when he's up to his knees in the chilly lake. Easier, because the air here smells only of lake water and rotting vegetation, crisp and light. Harder, because he still expects the smell of blood - so much so that it's a phantom on the edge of his senses, there but not.

Draco breathes out, winds his arm back, inhales. Throws the stone with a flick of his wrist on his next exhale. He absently watches the stone skip over the water once, twice, three times, before sinking underneath with a wet plop.

He can barely see the dark shapes of the next few stones he throws - only ripples in the water that are silver-white - but he rather likes the feeling. A light burn in his shoulder and bicep. A bone-deep chill in his feet and calves that probably mean he's in danger of frost-bite.

It means he's alive, unlike too many people to count.

There's a noise behind Draco, that of gravel being kicked up: a crunch that's almost grating.

"Malfoy," someone says, the voice rough and deep.

Draco turns around. Longbottom is standing at the very edge of the lake, toes of his sneakers flirting with the waterline. Draco can see his ankles and wrists - Longbottom's clothes are too small for him now. The smallest of the lion cubs has somehow grown into a massive beast in his own right, having found enough of his courage somewhere along the way to stand impassively when Draco scowls.

He turns away from Longbottom to throw his second to last stone, hard. It doesn't skip, but rather sinks immediately a decent distance away.

He hears shuffling behind him, and when he peeks back Longbottom is settling onto the gravel banks, legs crossed awkwardly and elbows resting on his thighs. His face is carefully neutral.

It's that neutrality that makes something in Draco chafe. A part of him wants Longbottom to not be kind, to rage at him so he can rage back. Unfortunately, Longbottom is having none of that, even when Draco tries his hardest.

"What do you want, Longbottom?" Draco says, flat and hostile, bringing up that scathing tone that has defined his relationship with a majority of people.

"Nothing, Malfoy." Longbottom replies. Draco snorts, unbelieving, suspicious, and Longbottom must hear it because he says, "Really. I'm just here to keep you company."

Draco turns to face Longbottom, too incredulous to keep sort-of-not-really ignoring Longbottom. He clutches the rock in his hand tightly and narrows his eyes. Longbottom's face is still carefully neutral, hazy and distant in the dark, but Draco's a Slytherin, a master manipulator. He looks at Longbottom's dark eyes and thinks pity. He sees the clenched jaw and reads unease. He spots the tight grip of Longbottom's hands on his knees and sees anxiousness.

Behind Longbottom, Hogwarts stands, dark and foreboding. A large bonfire is set up in front of the school, a point of contrast in the night. They must have set it up after Draco headed down to the lake. He wonders how long he's been here, and wonders at the lost time.

The fight goes out of him.

"Why not keep company with your friends?" He finally says.

Longbottom hums, "No one should be alone right now, I think." It's not really an answer, but Draco reads between the lines and understands. He pauses when Draco snorts, the silence hanging between them as Longbottom dithers over something.

Draco is too exhausted now to guess at what.

"You know everyone saw what you did, right?" Longbottom asks, voice low and quiet. "You fought with us, in the end. You crossed the field and stood by us against your family and friends, and you hurt like everyone else did when we thought Harry was dead -"

"I know what I did," Draco snaps, mouth twisting into something mean and familiar. "Unlike you I don't need a Remembrall to remind me of things."

Apparently not all the fight is out of him yet.

Merlin, he didn't need any help remembering the surprise on his parents' face, on his peers' and aunt's and everyone else. He doesn't need help remembering how he thought _I might die_ while looking at their faces, and then thinking once the battle was over that if he had just maybe convinced someone to switch sides with him, they'd still be alive.

Longbottom shrugs. At least Draco thinks he does - the shape of what could be his shoulders move up then down, and Draco hears fabric rustle quietly. Draco isn't looking at Longbottom very closely. He's staring at the Gryffindor's forehead, counting to ten in Latin to keep his composure.

"No else needs reminding, either." Longbottom replies, calm. Definitely a lion now, Draco thinks in another moment of absurdity. His grip on the stone is starting to make his hand ache, but Draco only holds on tighter.

"Why not stay with the others?" Longbottom asks.

"No," Draco answers immediately. "No, I don't want to."

Longbottom's face changes then, Draco notices. His lips pull down into a concerned frown that makes Draco ill.

"I honestly think it'd bet better for you if you're with the others," Longbottom says. He stands up in a single fluid movement, dusting off dust from the seat of his trousers and palms. Draco takes a brief moment to consider the amount of growing up Longbottom did in a single year.

"Everyone's lost something. Someone. They'd understand."

Draco almost laughs at the thought. "Not like me," he replies, adrift in a world that until a few months ago has always been clearly defined.

He turns back to the great expanse of the lake, almost beautiful in black and silver, and throws the stone with all his might. It lands with a loud splash somewhere, the noise breaking the quiet in a way that's so sudden it's almost sacrilegious. Taking a deep, shaky breath, Draco registers the cold numbness of his legs, and how grounding it is. He considers throwing himself into the lake as well, craving the clarity of mind it could give him, before he dismisses the thought with a swallow.

"No," Longbottom agrees slowly. "They didn't lose things the same way you did, but I think - I think they'd try to understand, at least."

Draco doesn't reply. He inspects the indents the stone left on his hands as a distraction. The pain is distant, like the cold. He should probably get out of the lake now, before he really does lose a toe, but he can't bring himself to move.

It's quiet for a long time. The gravel crunches when Longbottom shifts, but they both say nothing, staying more or less still as the wind whistles through the trees, shaking the foliage around the lake gleefully.

Draco is coming to think that they've reached a stalemate when Longbottom sighs, sounding as tired as Draco is.

"Do you know what thestrals are?" Longbottom says, a strange non sequitur.

Draco looks off to the Forbidden Forest before glancing at Longbottom. "Yes," he says, and though he's never had the chance to see one, he doesn't think it'd be that much of a problem, considering the last few years.

Longbottom smiles, tight and conflicted. "Luna was talking to Harry, you know. She was kind of excited." He pauses, taking a breath and shoving his hands into the pockets of his pants. "She said that it would be - that the people who survived could see the thestrals, and maybe they wouldn't be so lonely, now."

Draco's heart clenches. "The people or the creatures?" He hazards to ask.

Longbottom barks out a laugh. "I really don't know. But that's - that's not really the point. The _point_ is that no one does well being alone. It's better to have someone with you."

"I'm not really lonely, Longbottom," he says. He isn't. Not really. He's just reeling from the loss of things he didn't even know he had.

Longbottom shrugs, and when he exhales, his head tilts back so that his face is turned up to the sky, still cloudy and dark. He bites his lips, and when he looks back at Draco again his lips are quirked up in this wry, almost self-deprecating twist.

"No, maybe not." He says. "But you _are_ mourning. We all are."

The honest truth and frankness of the statement makes a number of different emotions well up in Draco, ready to burst out of him in an unsightly expulsion of tears or screaming. He can't decide which.

Draco's feet are stiff and numb from the freezing water, and his body shivers in fine, uncontrollable tremors. His hand is aching and his heart is aching, pulsing out a staccato _thump, thump thump_ that juxtaposes the heavy feeling in his gut and - Merlin, back of his eyes burn in this weird, strange way -

"You're not wrong," Draco admits, staring into the distance. On the other side of the lake, he thinks he sees a tentacle skim across the water in a brief flash of movement.

It's still dark and hard to see anything, but he's alive and he likes the feeling, even though he hates that he can't share it with some of his friends.

In the middle of the night - or morning, as it is - Draco prefers the way he's unable to tell if the tentacle is there or not. This way, he can't tell if it's the darkness or the water in his eyes that obscure his vision.


End file.
